


the work of our lives

by orphan_account



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 06:39:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4128520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why should it be easy? I am the work of your life, you are the work of mine. That's what love is! - Arizona's POV mid-season 7 (pre 7x18)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the work of our lives

_Leo Tolstoy: Despite good cause for it, I have never stopped loving you._  
_Sofya Tolstaya: Of course._  
_Leo Tolstoy: But God knows you don't make it easy!_  
_Sofya Tolstaya: Why should it be easy? I am the work of your life, you are the work of mine. That's what_ _love is!_

~ The Last Station

 

When, at last, the dam breaks _(as it always must and always will)_ , Arizona is seated alone at a cafeteria table; a half-finished crossword puzzle is thrown carelessly to the side of her plate. She's picking at a limp salad as she flips through a patient's chart, when the sound of a child's laughter catches her attention.

She's small, kneeling up on her chair to talk a mile-a-minute to her mother, hands gesticulating wildly. Dimples like Arizona's own, crusted with chocolate cake, but eyes and hair as dark as Calliope's. Arizona peeks at her out of the corner of her eye and her mother catches her gaze with a raised eyebrow and a long-suffering smile. It's a code, one which recognises the supposed shared understanding of the impatience of children (does she think Arizona's a mother, too?) . It's an expression which she's seen dozens of times, but this time...

The stinging in the back of her eyes is ridiculous. She's just tired. Although - no, not tired. Weary. She sleeps no better than she has ever done, but this is different. This is the confiscation of her certainty of purpose, leaving her alone and aching and scared and reaching for Calliope in the middle of the night. But she is still not the kind of person who cries in a cafeteria, so Arizona bites her lip so hard that it hurts and looks down at her crossword. The mother looks away, embarrassed.

"Hey."

Calliope's hand lands, warm, on her shoulder, and Arizona swallows through the ache in her throat before looking up at her. She can see everything she's feeling in her eyes and it's a surprising relief _(and a promise that no, not all is lost)_. It's love, worry and apology, all in one. She wonders if it's the same for Calliope, but it must be, because her hand moves from Arizona's shoulder to grasp her hand before she can even mourn its loss. They abandon food, crossword, and mother and child, as Calliope drags her to the nearest on-call room. Arizona follows willingly, too stupidly grateful to ask questions.

She wants to cry it all out. Her frustration with them both, her loneliness, her absolute fear that this won't ever change and she'll either have to learn to live like this or learn to live without her and the second option just isn't an option. But the thing is, Calliope locks the door and pulls Arizona _(unwillingly, because she's pretty sure she's going to cry as soon as she's in her arms and she really_ _doesn't want to)_ into her arms and the urge to cry just... goes away.

Instead, Arizona focuses on Calliope's warm arms around her. The hitch of her breath, which says that if she starts crying then Calliope will soon follow. The way that her head tucks neatly into the space between her partner's neck and shoulder so that they just fit. Everything else melts away. It's just them, here, a timeless embrace except for _their baby_ kicking in between them. Arizona's hand moves without conscious thought to where their child lies, seeking out the connection. She whispers _"You are mine"_ into Calliope's neck; a reassurance and a promise. She's not sure which one of them she's talking to. It doesn't matter.

They stay until they can't any more, until Arizona's guilt pulls her back to the Peds ward and Calliope's pager drags her down to the ER. Arizona goes home that night, the tightness in her chest easing, but she expects nothing different from the nights beforehand and she's right. How can it be? Nothing has changed. Their situation is what it is, and neither of them have accepted it yet, and they are both just _so scared_.

But Calliope folds the corners of the "Stumbling into Motherhood" book on the pages that Arizona will find most interesting; knowing that she'll open it to unfold the corner and place a bookmark in its place. She ends up reading the whole book, in a bid to feel just a little more connected. It helps.

In the empty nights, Arizona holds close the memory of the two _(three)_ of them in the on-call room, shrouded within it like a worn blanket. And on the nights when it's really bad - when the elevator doors _just won't open_ and she's trapped in there with Calliope and Mark and their baby - she thinks Calliope knows, somehow. Because those are the nights when she pulls her closest, tucking Arizona's head firmly into the crook of her neck and placing her hand on her rounded belly.

Eventually, she stops feeling as though she's going to trip and fall at every tentative step. It gets better. She resolves _(a promise to herself, because she needs something to hold onto and she'll never_ _doubt the answer)_ that the next time she feels as though she's about to fall, she'll call out. She'll demand what she's too scared to ask for and Calliope's too scared to offer. But she is Calliope's and Calliope is hers and none of the rest of it matters.


End file.
